


Home Game

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Ficlet, Flash Fic, Friendship, Gen, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey is a friend in time of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 2007; prompt: 'Ballgame'. Many thanks to the wonderful Katie for beta duties above and beyond and, by that, I mean 'filling in all the bits about baseball and, in fact, actually writing part of a paragraph for me, and not laughing'. You don't get a better beta than that.

There is no justice. There is no god. There is no mercy in all this world. And there is no baseball for Danny today.

The ticket's been burning a hole in his pocket all week, he's been following spring training and exhibition games like a stalker, juggling stats, running odds, reading the scouting reports and analysing every move. He knows all the names, all the numbers, all the matchups and all the chances. Yesterday evening he could practically reach out and take it in the palm of his hand.

That was yesterday.

At three this morning he wakes with a spike boring through his eyes, stumbles out of bed and doesn't make it halfway to the bathroom before he drops to his knees and throws up on the rug. Doesn't have the strength, after, to move, just lies there, face turned away from the mess, smell making him sicker, hanging on to the floor and begging the room to stop spinning.

He's cold, cold right through to the bone, can't stop shaking. He curls into a limp, pathetic ball and wishes he had someone to come throw a blanket over him, bring him water, bring him aspirin, make it _stop_. But he lives on his own, and he'll have to get by on his own. He's forgotten, honest-to-god forgotten, all about the game. It's as much as he can do to remember his own name.

He goes to sleep there, or maybe passes out, and comes to some time later, colder yet and aching all over. The phone's ringing. That's what woke him. He crawls over to it and grabs the receiver just as the machine tries to kick in.

It's Natalie. She starts out yelling, but when she hears his voice, rough and shaky, her own voice softens. She tells him he sounds awful, and she really seems concerned. So he lies, of course, because he's a capital-M Man, has to play it tough, play it down, says, "No, it's nothing, no sweat" – and that's a lie too, because he realises now that he _is_ sweating, skin grey and clammy and, well, _yeucch! _ But, "Don't worry about it, I'll be fine tomorrow." And she says, "You'll miss the game," and it's only then that he realises and he says, very quietly, "_Fuck!_"

So he tries. He makes an effort. He drags himself up, scrubs the carpet, makes some tea, takes a shower. But his hands tremble and he spills things, drops things, has to brace himself against the tiles to keep from falling as the spray drives into him like a bullet. Afterward, it's as much as he can do to grab a towel and flop, still damp, back onto his bed.

That's all he knows for hours. What wakes him the next time, brings him blinking into a light that drills into his skull, is footsteps. Then Casey's there, looming over him, saying "Danny? How're you feeling?"

Casey shouldn't be there. There's a reason, somewhere, just out of reach. It takes a moment before Dan remembers.

"The game?" He winces, embarrassed at the pathetic croak that his voice has become. Casey grins down at him, nods at the TV set he must have dragged in from the other room, aims the remote and brings up a muted image of green fields, sparkling white bases, freshly combed basepaths, bleachers, and screaming fans.

"Cold out," he says, cheerfully, as if that had anything to do with … well, anything. "Traded in my ticket. I'll watch it with you." Then he fumbles in his pocket. "I got you something." He drops it on the bedcover.

Peanuts. He's brought peanuts. And two packets of Cracker Jack.

Maybe, just maybe, there is some good in the world after all. Suddenly Dan doesn't feel quite so bad. He manages a smile. But –

"If you brought beer, I'll have to kill you," he murmurs.

Casey folds himself down onto the bed beside him. "Gatorade. It's in the kitchen." He slings an arm around Dan's shoulders. "Now. You want to whine, or you want to watch some ball?"

As if that's even a choice.

***


End file.
